


in all probability

by marginaliana



Category: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:34:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: The touch of a hand in a dark wood.
Relationships: Guildenstern/Rosencrantz
Comments: 26
Kudos: 151
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	in all probability

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strikethesun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikethesun/gifts).



In all probability, you were never lovers.

Who were you to love? Who was he to be loved?

Who _were_ you?

A banging on the shutters. "Rosencrantz! Guildenstern!"

His arm was draped across your chest, his nose pressed to the space just behind your ear. Behind – that was important. You could feel his breath, but not hear what he whispered in his sleep (or before he slept, if there was a before). Did his lashes brush your skin as his eyes came open? Could you feel the intake of air as he readied himself to respond?

Don't answer, you thought. Don't answer.

* * *

"You yourself, sir," says Hamlet, "should be as old as I am if like a crab you could go backward." He isn't speaking to you, but you listen.

* * *

"What's the first thing you remember?"

Once upon a time—

Wait. That's not how this one starts.

* * *

You hold hands. This is the only truth you know, the touch of a hand in a dark wood.

(That isn't why you do it.)

It's not like holding your own hand. It's not reaching into the mirror and finding only yourself. You are distinct, he is distinct. His fingers are longer, his palm warmer. There is a scar; Hamlet gave him it, you suppose, with a too-sharp edge of a practice blade or something else the like. (You knew Hamlet then, or so they tell you.)

You hold hands; his embraces yours. Does it bring him comfort? You don't know, but he doesn't let go.

* * *

"Rosemary, that's for remembrance." Ophelia holds it out.

You take it; the touch brings nothing but prickles against your fingertips. You watch her, crush the herb in your fist. He waits until she leaves and then gently takes it from you.

Later, you find that the scent lingers.

* * *

"What's the first thing you remember?"

In the beginning—

No. That's _really_ not how it starts.

* * *

Memory is strongest in scent. When you grasp his hand, will it carry over? Will he remember you, after?

(After what?)

Perhaps he remembers you already, from before.

(Before what?)

* * *

There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where you could have said— no. 

Would you say it now?

Would it have meant you could keep this? The touch of his hand, the way his face has turned to press against your shoulder, seeking protection from Ophelia's jagged wail. 

She weeps; Hamlet shouts. "Go to, I'll no more on't; it hath made me mad! I say we will have no more marriage!"

You'll have no more declaration than Hamlet has marriage, though you cannot be allowed to weep for the lack. But you have the corner of his mouth, not a kiss but still warm through the wool of your doublet. You have the glimmer of his hair (russets and tangerines of old gold) in the light (morning or afternoon, whichever it is). Isn't having that much enough?

You want to close your eyes, want to put your hand into a pocket and find the coins that you've both touched, put away there like souvenirs, like evidence. You want to push them into his hands again, spin them, find out which way they'll come up.

* * *

"What's the first thing you remember?"

"We were summoned."

What if only one was summoned, what if he summoned the other? "Rosencrantz," and then, later, "Guildenstern."

To be not alone. You can only _be not_ alone. You can be not-alone on boats and not-alone not on boats. You are soon to _be not_ on this boat, but then you will be alone.

Won't you?

* * *

Would it have been better to be Guildencrantz? To be Rosenstern?

* * *

"If I had any doubts, or rather hopes, they are dispelled."

You separate, each to a different side of the—

Room. Different side of the room. (You were going to say 'stage,' but you don't know why. It's all so melodramatic: the argument, the confusion, the questions. Not knowing your roles for Hamlet, for the king, for each other. Melodrama, that's what it is. Only natural that you should confuse things.)

* * *

You touch his hand again, on the boat. You've read the letter; you're on top of everything now. You understand. It all makes sense.

The sun's going down. It'll be dark soon. You lie down together among the barrels in the night air, pull a cloak over your two bodies. Warmth, breath, the faint smell of rosemary tinged with salt. Now you remember it – the feel of him solid against your side, a call just before the sunrise, a summons. The reluctance to wake, to separate. A lock of hair brushing against the soft skin of your neck. A shiver. The light blossoming. 

He pulls at the edge of the cloak and tucks it beneath your arm to hold it down. Perhaps his hand lingers. You close your eyes and pretend that it's morning, that the sun is just about to come up, that you're back there and the summons hasn't yet come. You pretend that you're about to have the moment when you can say – could have said – no. The moment when you'll know better than to say yes. The moment when you'll ignore the summons, stay there with the wool over your eyes, grip his wrist to keep him from pushing back the cloak. Turn towards him in the dark, and–

If you pretend hard enough, the moment will come. You'll reverse, you'll come back to it, or you'll carry on past and start again. The moment will come.

* * *

Coins changing hands.

Left hand, right hand – changing choice of hand, but there's still a coin.

"You had money in both hands."

"… Yes."

"Every time?"

"Yes."

"What's the point of that?"

"I wanted to make you happy."

You want to touch hands again, but there's no point now.

* * *

Are you off course? Are you on course?

You're on a boat – you know that much.

* * *

In all probability, you were never lovers.

Who was he to love? Who were you to be loved?

Who _were_ you? Did it matter?

Probably not.

(Statement. One all.)

In all probability you were never lovers. And yet: within un-, sub-, or supernatural forces, the probability is that the law of probability will not operate as a factor.

You flip the coin.

Heads.

"All right then. I don't care. I've had enough. To tell you the truth, I'm relieved."

Then: Alone. 

"Well, we'll know better next time." 

To be alone, or not to be alone?

A breath. Well.

"Now you see me, now you—"


End file.
